


It's A Lot Like Falling

by Rileywrites_parker



Series: It's A Lot Like Falling/After All Things [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers - Freeform, Avengers Infinity War, F/M, Hurt Peter Parker, MCU compliant, Marvel - Freeform, Peter Parker Angst, Protective Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 07:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16928958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rileywrites_parker/pseuds/Rileywrites_parker
Summary: Peter has been absent a lot lately. Ned and Reader are concerned. Basically: unreliable Peter/brand new Spider-man and confused/hurt Reader. Peter likes to leave notes when he messes up, because apologies are hard.Also, Ned is the biggest Peter x Reader shipper. He thinks it’s cute. He also thinks Peter is oblivious.





	1. This is Nice

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of a six part series titled ‘It’s A Lot Like Falling.’ 
> 
> It starts off slow. Don't most tragic romances?
> 
> Prompt: “It wouldn’t be the first time you broke a promise.”
> 
> Or, in this case: the longest hug in history.

“Hey,” you asked, your fingers twisting to put in the last number of your combination, lock popping open, the door following suit, “you’re still coming over later, right?” Peter swapped out his Spanish book for his Chemistry text, closing his own locker and then spinning the combination to lock it back up. He walked over to you, leaning a shoulder into the locker next to your own, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, pushing them up to his elbows before crossing his arms in front of him.

“We have to finish up that history project, you know,” you spoke around your door, peering around the side to see Peter looking down at his shoes, one sneakered toe pushing at a rogue pencil someone had dropped on the ground. You could already sense it coming, that heavy feeling of disappointment working its way up from your toes to mix with the contents in your stomach. You finished swapping out your own textbooks, lightly closing the door, sighing as you tucked your binder close to your chest.

“Actually,” his hand was rubbing at the back of his neck, disturbing those curls you so loved, “I have-uh, I have a thing.”

A girl brushed past you in the hallway, bumping into your shoulder, almost causing you to drop your things. You tossed her a look, silently scolding her for her lack of manners. You adjusted to settle your weight on your shoulder, leaning into the door of your locker, looking up to see that Peter was now fumbling around with the edges of the notebook he held.

“You have a thing?”

“Yeah, you know, a- uh thing that I have to do a-after school,” the tone in his voice made it sound as though he were asking a question, “for May.” His eyes met yours, doing his best to offer you an apologetic smile for missing out on yet another important after school study session.

A few months previous, Peter had fallen ill. He missed almost an entire week of school and had refused to let anyone visit him at home. His behavior had taken an odd turn after that. Suddenly it was like there wasn’t enough of Peter’s time to go around; he was never really present, and even when he was his thoughts were a million miles away on some unseen planet that only he was privy to. When asked, he always had some excuse primed and ready to shrug your concern off with the brush of a few stammered words and nervous gestures.

He had you and Ned worried. You missed him.

“Peter, this project counts for a huge chunk of our grade,” your brows furrowed at him, your brain already beginning to work out how much you were going to have to do when you got home to finish the assignment on your own, “and you promised you weren’t going to bail on me this time.”

Ned walked up to the two of you then, a bright smile on display. He placed a hand on yours and Peter’s shoulders, giving each a light squeeze. It took him a moment to gauge the mood, the smile leaving his face as his eyes bounced between the two of you. Finally sensing the tension, he dropped his hands and took a slight step back. “So,” he looked at you then, a sympathetic expression on his face, “I guess you’re ditching again?” He looked at Peter, who was now frowning, arms crossed in front of him.

Peter’s eyes were on you now, his brown orbs scanning your features, “Look, I’ll make it up to you, OK?” His fingers found yours, his warm calloused hand smothering the top of your cold one. You focused on where your hands met, following the contours of his fingers and the way the lines of him changed as they molded with your own.

“Sure, Peter,” you conceded, voice soft and defeated. Your hand was suddenly cold again as he pulled away, tucking his arm back around his notebook. He began to back away from the two of you and in the direction of his next class. The hallways were clearing, most people having already transitioned to their next period. You felt a light touch on your back, as Ned gave you his silent support.

“O-OK,” he said, before offering a weak smile to his friend, his eyes on Ned’s hand. He turned away to head upstairs.

“It’s not the first time you’ve broken a promise,” you whispered to his retreating form, Ned’s hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. He grabbed your arm then to lead the both of you to your English classroom.

You had no way of knowing that Peter had heard you. You had no way of knowing that your words had left his stomach in a knot and an ache in his chest.

When you got home from Art Club later that night, you were surprised to find a folder lying on the center of your bed. Picking it up and opening it, you found that Peter had finished the shared project. He had even completed a few of the questions you still hadn’t answered yourself, his neat, blocky handwriting marking each sheet of paper.

Despite the gesture of good faith, you were still upset with him.

The next morning when you arrived at school, Peter was waiting for you. You nodded your head at him and gave him a small smile. Turning your attention to your locker, you found that there was a note taped to the combination lock. You gave Peter a look, asking for an explanation, receiving instead a shrug of his shoulders and a sheepish expression. You peeled the note away from your locker and unfolded the little piece of paper.

‘I promise you that I’ll get better at this, that I won’t keep letting you down. No more broken promises, [Y/N.]’

You met Peter’s eyes then. His hands were shoved into his pockets, knuckles hanging out over the edges of the denim as he stood there anxiously awaiting your response. You said nothing, and instead reached out to him, weaving your arms around his neck, pulling him towards you, your bodies meeting in an awkward embrace. A few moments passed before he relented, relaxing into you, removing his hands from his pockets to wrap them securely around your back.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed into your hair. “I’m not trying to hurt you, or-or let you down,” he pulled you in tighter, his fingers clenching, the fabric of your shirt bunching, “I just have some things going on right now that are really difficult to explain.”

You nodded your head, chin digging into the top of his shoulder, skin chafing against the strap of his backpack. “I – we just worry about you, Pete.”

“I know,” his warm breath tickling as his face pressed against the side of yours, “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever it is you have going on, you can talk to me about it.” He let out a sigh of contentment as you brought one of your hands up and into the hair at his neck, carding your fingers through the first sets of curls there.

“I really can’t,” he said.

Nodding your head again, continuing to play with his hair, “OK, that’s OK,” your hand making its way a little further into the bulk of his tresses, fingers brushing behind his ears, “I just mean that when you’re ready, whenever, I’m here to listen; whatever it is.”

“OK,” he replied in a small voice, his fingers now twirling through the fine hairs at your neck that had managed to escape your braid.

Ned came around the corner then, stopping a few feet in front of the two of you, grinning as he met your eyes and giving you a not-so-subtle thumbs up. You responded with a beaming smile before motioning for him to come over, grabbing at the strap of his backpack when he was within reaching distance to pull him in. He wrapped his arms around the two of you then, Peter letting out a laugh as Ned squeezed, rocking the three of you back and forth.

“We should make this a thing, this is nice,” Ned declared; the two of you nodding your heads in agreement before the three of you separated. You smiled at Ned, reaching up to fix his hug-disturbed collar, offering him a good morning. You turned to look at Peter then, his eyes meeting with yours, a light blush painted across his cheeks.

You smiled, a blush of your own forming as he said, “This _is_ nice.”


	2. Yesterday, She Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter comes to the realization that maybe there’s more to his observations than just that. Maybe there’s a reason his eyes like to linger. Maybe there’s a reason he’s suddenly flustered and bothered by silly things like fingers and tongues. He’d been caught up on a different face for so long he’d failed to notice his developing admiration for the one right in front of him. 
> 
> Peter is 16/17.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: “… Do you like it?” “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it the right way.” “It’s cold, you should take my jacket.”  
> Or, in this case: he figures it out.  
> Or: a case of the feelings and irritating hormones.

His middle digits flexed into his palm as he pressed on his web shooter, web fluid ejecting, the sticky substance jettisoning towards the reflective surface of the skyscraper towering over the busy street below; the sound of it like that of an old, cherished friend, making contact and allowing him to continue swinging. He wove through the buildings with graceful, practiced ease; two years of web slinging now under his belt. His eyes scanning as he moved, ears perked as he changed arms, repeating the same motion, web latching on at a different point and onto a different structure. His body jerked slightly as he changed direction, his muscles responding with a little hesitation, cold air biting as his speed increased with each arc.

He still struggled with a few things. He’d gotten better about changing into his alter self, better about back packs; for which his Aunt was grateful.

Fighting was hard. Losing even more so.

But this he could do. This was relaxing. This was peaceful.

This was when he found refuge in his thoughts.

Thoughts that were now on a subject he’d only recently taken up; carrying him off to the night before, swinging on the webs of his memory to drinks and chapped lips.

It wasn’t the first time he’d found those lips to be the focus of his attention. There had been many late nights since middle school spent talking into the early hours of the morning; hours where he’d studied the lines of them in the dim light of the television as movie after movie played on, fixating on them while they moved, pink flesh curving around her voice, tongue peeking out when she got caught on her thoughts or when she’d spent so much time weaving her stories that the instruments of her craft needed lubrication.

He was always eager to hear everything, watching as the things she held captive in her mind sprung free for him to hold in his own thereafter.

This, however, had been the first time that fascination had twisted it’s way deeply enough into his mind that it suddenly transformed into this tangible thing; a passion; an awareness, that from that point on, would push to the front line of the war waging in his chest anytime he was in her presence.

He’d spent a lot of time watching Liz’s mouth, eyes tracing over their plumpness, admiring the way she decorated them with splashes of color, wondering how those colors would look on his face and neck, smeared against the paleness of his skin if she pressed her mouth there.

He’d liked how the whiteness of her teeth had stood out brightly against them when she stretched those plump things into a smile.

Liz was beautiful in an obvious sort of way, beautiful and kind. It had seemed only natural to him that he should admire Liz; that he should want to feel her. But then what happened, happened, and she was no longer obtainable, gone, and he had found that as days turned into weeks, he no longer thought about the shape of her, or the way she laughed.

Truthfully, and in hindsight, she hadn’t even left before he had unintentionally started his thoughts on a different path; it had begun with a promise, a note, and a hug he hadn’t known his worn being had been craving.

Then, and it took a while, it got worse.

And it was all because of hot chocolate.  
  


* * *

 

  
He’d told her to meet him on the bench beneath two trees a couple of blocks away from her apartment, ‘the place in between;’ where you always met before school. He’d told her he would see her after dinner. He hadn’t expected to get hung up by a group of thugs beating on a sharply dressed white collar in an alley on the way. He certainly hadn’t planned on swinging out into the street just in time to pull a little girl into his arms before that bus could flatten her; mother in hysterics; little blue and purple sneaker blackened and smashed under the weight of a tire.

He also hadn’t expected the clouds to sink, for the air to further chill, and the wind to begin blending little white flurries into the darkened sky.

He was thankful for the built in heater Mr. Stark had gifted him, although it had been Karen who had reminded him of it. It had been a blessing as the sun had sunk below the horizon and the cold air had turned bitter as it began to snow.

And then he was glad for the thick jacket May had shoved at him when he pulled it out of his bag, insisting he avoid being too cold as he’d left earlier that morning.

She sat on the bench exactly where he’d asked her to; always proving that she was the better friend by never failing to answer that question he had been asking for years. Billowy white clouds of moisture puffed out from her as she blew hot air into her chilled hands; tips of her fingers reddened to match with her exposed ears. She had drawn as much of herself into her center as she possibly could, legs shoved against her chest, arms wrapped tightly around knees, a plum colored sweater pulled snugly to her shivering form.

He immediately felt a thousand times worse when he was close enough to see her face, at how red her nose was, the rosiness of her cheeks, her blue-tinged lips, and the furrowed lines of her brows as she frowned.

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” she said, her lips drawn in tight, “you told me you would be here right after dinner. It’s nearly 8 o’clock.” Releasing her knees, she crossed her arms in front of her, exposing her fingers to the air.

“Uh oh,” he took a seat next to her, sliding over to where the scratchy material of his jeans sandwiched against the chilled fabric of her leggings; cool skin leeching into the warmth of his, “using my middle name and everything,” tone light, a poor attempt at making her laugh.

She tucked her fingers further under her arms, nestling them into the warmth her core provided; wild tendrils of hair that had come loose from the messy bun she wore the rest of her hair in twirled around her face, the pieces chasing after the flurries dancing on the breeze.

She wasn’t having it.

“It’s freezing, Parker,” body coiling as she pulled the exposed skin of her neck into the nest of her shoulders, knitted sweater bunching between her breasts as she retreated into herself further, “I’ve been here for over an hour.”

“I know, I know, I’m so, so sorry,” his fingers tingled as he pulled them from the safety of his pockets to unzip his jacket, “it’s just that - you know, something came up.” She frowned at that, but nodded her head in acceptance, used to the standard response he offered almost daily; always answering, but never questioning.

Little tufts of the fallen sky littered her hair, crystals hanging from the strands like he did from his webs. A flurry found the bridge of her nose, constellation of freckles hidden beneath the lightness of it; another found a long, pretty set of eyelashes; the light of the lamps overhead shining through their translucence and giving her eyes an almost ethereal, glimmering appearance.

He worked his arms out from the sleeves, freeing his shoulders and baring himself to the bitter air, shivering violently when it caressed the back of his neck and nipped at his ears. “Here, you should take my jacket.”

“No, that’s OK, you keep it.” She shook her head, the briefest of smiles pulling at the fullness of her lips.

“Please? I feel bad, and you look a little silly all scrunched up like that.” He held it out to her, the sleeves brushing against a bent knee. She took it then, pushing numb fingers through the arms, warm air pushing past her lips as she released a contented sound when the residual heat from his body trapped within the woven fibers latched onto her shivering form. She buried her nose in the collar of the slightly too big jacket.

“Thanks, Pete,” she smiled then, her lips hidden, but her eyes lighting up, the rosiness of her cheeks deepening.

“Y-yeah, sure,” he said smiling back, his own cheeks lighting up curiously. He looked down at his shoes then, at the way he’d sloppily looped the laces together in the alley he’d hastily swapped costumes in; easier and less distracting to look at than the pretty way the color in her cheeks accentuated the way the skin there curved over the delicate lines of her bones. He toed at the straps of the bag he’d sat between his feet.

A strange thought crossed his mind then: Was it normal to want to touch your friend’s face? Was it normal to want to finger through your friend’s hair? Surely it was. She had done it for him many times.

Was that normal?

It had to be.

He looked up from his feet and across the street to the yellowed lights spilling from the windows of the diner that resided squished and out of place between two towering apartment buildings. Raggedy looking garland hung around the door, faded green plastic illuminated by the equally fading light of the bulbs dotting the length of it. Someone had painted various themed figures on the door. The flurries in the air becoming more frequent, heavier; making the artificial snowy scenes on the windows seem less than as the white of the falling sky and paint blended together. Another shiver wracked his rapidly cooling muscles; envious of the striped scarf the painted snowman wore.

“We should go inside,” he said gesturing to the cozy looking insides of the building, standing before she could answer, swinging his bag around a shoulder before shoving iced fingers into his pockets, “I’ll get you a coffee or something,” shrugging his shoulders and quirking a funny brow as she looked up at him.

“OK.” She stood slowly, taking a second to stretch her muscles, zipping the borrowed jacket, her nose still hiding in its collar. Her eyes bright like the moon that was beginning to peek from the clouds.

“OK.” He stood awkwardly for a moment, looking at her, at the way his jacket sat on her shoulders, at how different it looked on someone else, someone so familiar; two sets of moistened air puffing from cold noses in sync. He looked away when her brow arched up in question, turning to walk across the street, bodies stiff from the chill of the air and the unfamiliar tension it was filled with. He reached the door first, fingers wrapping around the frozen metal of its handle, skin tingling in shock at the temperature; burning when the heated air of the diner shook its contrasting hands with his nerve endings.

She led the way to the back, picking a secluded booth in the corner; cardboard cutout of a Christmas tree hanging above your heads, spinning lazily in time with the convection of hot air spilling from the vents. He slid his bag in first, pushing it against the wall. The vinyl cushions crinkled as you sat on either side of each other. The tips of her fingers worked to free the table of the glittering salt crystals decorating its sticky surface.

“I’m thinking hot chocolate would be good,” she said, finally comfortable enough in the warmth of the diner to free her lips; chapped from the wind, dark pink and no longer slightly purpled; color attractive without the need for the waxes Liz had favored.

“Yeah? It’s been a long time since I’ve had any,” he pulled his eyes away from her to look towards the place’s lone waitress. She turned to nod her head at him as she finished taking the order of the couple on the opposite side of the room, writing diligently in her notepad. “May stopped making it for me years ago.” He needed to stop and grab a box of mix at the store. Maybe he would make her some this weekend. Ben had loved the stuff. Maybe it would warm her like he used to.

You’d placed your order, waitress walking away with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.

His fingers carded through his hair, fidgeting with the waves, fingernails raking over his scalp as he looked down at her hands; hands that wove themselves together and apart again, fingertips that ran over the stitches at the cuff of his jacket. She stopped to fiddle with a hangnail.

It was unusual for the two of you to be so quiet; odd that you were finding it difficult to come up with words to fill the silence. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable; he was never uncomfortable around her, not really. She looked up from her nails to meet his eyes, bright and glittering, an infectious smile gracing her features, pulling at his own lips before he’d even processed the fluttery feeling brewing in his chest at the sight.

Two steaming cups of sweetened, chocolatey milk clanked as they met the table, a bowl of whipped cream finding a place between them.

“Thank you,” you both said at the same time, waitress offering a smile. He pushed a cup over in her direction, her fingers looping through the porcelain handle, a pink tongue peeking through her lips as she brought the cup up to her face.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said as he worked to unroll the napkin blanketing his silverware, pulling out a spoon and scooping a dollop of whipped cream into its silvery bowl, “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it the right way.” She released a tinkling laugh as the cream splashed into her cup, the hot liquid making quick work of melting it, sweetness mixing into the sharpness of the chocolate. He put a generous scoop of the stuff in his own cup, enjoying the sugary taste as it coated his tongue; warmth of it working to heat him from the inside.

“Definitely, you’re right.” He watched as she took her first sip, eyebrows rising as she closed her eyes and made a pleased sound; the noise bordering dangerously on what he would consider a moan; ears flushing at the strange sensation the thought stirred in his abdomen. His eyes followed her tongue as it ran over those lips, watched as it caught on the chocolate and cream that had stained them, as her tongue retreated back into her mouth, leaving a glistening trail in its wake.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight and bobbing, heart fluttering, mind shouting at him in excitable confusion, whispering its traitorous appreciation.

“…D-do you like it?” He found himself stammering, his voice cracking in a way it hadn’t in a couple of years. ‘Come on, Peter,’ he chided himself, feeling a fool for being affected and flustered by his friend.

His very attractive friend.

His friend with very nice lips and a pretty tongue.

_‘Good God, being a teenager sucked.’_

But was it really just that? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t think so.

She took another drink, making the same noises, the same face; lashes fluttering, teasing pink cheeks.

He put his drink down.

She nodded her head then, “This is probably the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had, truly.” A single finger reached up to run along the corner of her mouth, wet, pink flesh responding to the pressure, dimpling and stretching as she wiped sweet cream from its surface.

Then she popped that finger into her mouth.

He watched as it pushed past her lips, as she pulled it out, fingertip wet and slick.

He whipped his head to the side, heart hammering in his chest, taking his eyes off of that finger and those lips. His stomach flipped. His cheeks burned. The whole of him burned.

 _‘Oh no. Oh no. Oh God,’_ his internal self uttering through his panicked brain.

And then it hit him, smacked him upside the head, punched him right in the chest with the power and efficiency of the thugs he’d fought off only an hour or so before.

He liked you. He really, really liked you; the friend that had always been.

But it was more than that. He was attracted to you. Really, really, really attracted to you. He realized that he had been for a while; that his brain had been whispering to his heart and that his eyes and ears had been feeding it, and that he didn’t just notice things about you, he really paid attention.

When he located courage among the muck of emotions swamping his addled thoughts to look at her again, her face was different. Under the lens of awareness, everything had softened; the hammering in his heart relaxing to a steady, fluttery warmth.

Another thought crossed his mind then: Liz had been obvious. [Y/N] hadn’t been.

Until she was.

And somehow, that was better.

Now he found himself noticing everything; found that he wanted to notice everything, to build on the catalogue of things about you he had already started filling out years ago without even really knowing.

Now as he looked at her sweet face, at the lines of her nose and jaw, the soft angles of her chin, and the way her eyes caught the light from the glittering specks amidst the garland strewn about the room, he found that her lips; and his continued, almost necessary attention to them, were like sirens, singing to him, tempting him with their shape and color.

If her lips moved against his, with his, the same way they danced around the sounds and syllables in ‘Peter,’ how would it feel? Would his blood sing out in the same way her words did? Would it boil? Or would it be like a balm, soothing the roiling waves in his stomach; calming the storm brewing in the wild ocean of his mind.

What would happen if?

_‘But you can’t do that to your friend, Peter. You can’t ask that question, Spider-man.’_

So instead, he’d smiled and you’d talked and laughed as you finished your drinks. He’d walked you home before trekking to his own; passing by the diner again on his way, looking into the windows, smiling as his eyes found their booth, paper Christmas tree still spinning away.  
  


* * *

  
Four and a half years ago she was the new girl with the ill-suited bangs and dirty shoes offering him part of the lunch her parents had over-packed; bag of chips crinkling as she held it in front of his face, taking a seat next to him and Ned without asking if it was OK; talking about books and cartoons and stars.

Then she was sitting across from him on the bus, sitting next to him in class, walking alongside him in the hallways; bony shoulders bumping into each other, scratchy nylon backpack straps tangling together. Worming her way into their lives, his life, of her own volition, like even then she’d known eventually it would be his heart she slid into.

A year ago, she’d leant on a dented, scratchy locker; wide open, a friend offering her arms and ears in answer, not really knowing what the question was. Not knowing what she was giving. She’d been the familiar smell, his favorite braid, and a soft sweater for his chin to rest on; like then she’d known eventually it would be her comfort he would ache to slide into.

Three months ago she was the small set of too-warm fingers brushing against his as you’d walked home together. She was the sweet, floral scent in the air filling his lungs. She was the laugh that caressed his ears and squeezed at his heart; the connection between his chest and brain lagging, struggling to identify it for what it was.

Yesterday, she was.

But today, today she is.

Tomorrow, he would be.

Maybe.

When he worked up the courage to do something about it.

If he could.

Should he?

Was it really such a good idea?

With that final thought, he released the hold on the web he’d launched at the brick building across from his and May’s own, allowing his body to push through the dry, chilly air, riding the waves of momentum as it carried him to the sidewalk below. With arms outstretched he caught himself on a street lamp, whirling around it in a last attempt at expelling his nervous energy before the soles of his boots made contact with the cement.

He hadn’t even made it half way up the stairs to his door before his phone had rung. Before Tony had called asking for his help, tension and apprehension in his voice evident; he spoke of a threat to the whole of the world, to the universe. He spoke of how much he hated himself for calling.

Happy arrived seconds after that, uncharacteristically silent, face lined with worry and what looked like fear. There was a case in the back seat, not entirely unlike the one he’d been gifted that first time.

Tony had ended his call with “Suit up, kid.”

So he did.

And he’d fought.

And he’d lost, they all did. So much, too much.

He’d thought of her when he closed his eyes and deafened his ears to the sounds of chaos around him. He’d continue thinking of her, of those lips and eyes, her hair and fingers and of hot chocolate while they remained closed for days after.  
  


* * *

  
**_Your thoughts are much appreciated! I love hearing your input!_ **


	3. Courage, Or Something Like It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and your friends go to a house party during the final months of your senior year. Someone convinces you to let loose despite your better judgement. Peter’s eyes flirt. You flirt. You touch. Everyone is aware of the tension except for the two of you, until you are. Then there’s Michelle and Ned who hope beyond hope that you’ll stop screwing around and just get together already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts:“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” “You’re so drunk.” “That wasn’t very subtle.”  
> Or in this case: an exercise in the art of desperation.  
> Or: maybe this isn’t really the way I want you.
> 
> Peter has just turned 18.
> 
> Warnings: Alcohol consumption? Peer pressure? Good guy Peter? Tension that’s not to be resolved until Prom night?

The air around you seemed to vibrate: the booming, nearly overwhelming sound of music disrupting the air waves, combining with the energy of the bodies bouncing around in sync with the rhythm to create this thick, pulsating entity trapped within the walls of the house; one that you had never imagined yourself actually enjoying. While you weren’t out on the make-shift dance floor with the majority of your peers, you could appreciate the sight of excitable bodies moving together, laughing, smiling; loving; absorbing the enthusiasm and the infectious energy from afar with your friend Michelle.

You had been to a house party or two over the course of your senior year. Most of them had been a little more reserved than this one was turning out to be. Perhaps it was the location; the new kid, Harry, who had only just started school at Midtown a few months previous, was the son of a wealthy businessman. From what you had learned from Harry, his father was rarely around; leaving him to his own devices within the expansive home in the suburbs. It was a beautiful home, full of expensive furnishings, marbled, heavily embellished bathrooms and wide, far-stretching windows that looked out onto the city skyline; bright lights twinkling, paying homage to the stars.

You sensed that hours earlier, before the empty spaces in the home had quite literally taken to life, it was a lonely, vacuous space. You felt bad for Harry, his predicament always reminding you of Peter. Harry made up for his father’s shortcomings as a parent with cars, clothes, parties, and popularity.

You liked Harry despite his tendency to speak from his ass.

You were glad Peter had his aunt.

It had actually been Harry who had managed to convince you to come. He’d convinced Michelle, Ned, and Peter to tag along as well. It had gone something like this:

Ned and Peter had declared not again.

Harry declared the four of you wet blankets.

You’d declared him a jerk.

You’d then all declared to his retreating form that maybe he was right.

Despite that, you were glad to be standing in the kitchen, comfortably propped against the marble surface of the island, shoulder to shoulder with Michelle, nursing a soda, tapping a foot along to the beat. Michelle leaned further into you, a few of her curls settling on your shoulder, her voice loud as she spoke into your ear, “You know, this actually _isn’t_ so terrible.”

You laughed at her, eyebrows rising as you looked at your friend, taking in the half-smirk on her full lips. “Truly, I’m shocked.” She made to tuck her loose hair behind her ear, her shoulders shrugging, her clothing catching on yours, disturbing the fabric of the flannel you wore.

“Yeah, well, I have to be present sometime,” You nodded, giving her another smile, “feminine mystique can’t be a full time job.”

“I’m having fun, too.”

Your eyes scanned the room again, coming to rest on the counter, your eyes meeting with your own in the impossibly shiny surface. You noted that your cheeks were flush, most likely due to the heat radiating from all of the bodies in motion in such close quarters. Your hair fell nicely around your face. Your lips were plump and reddened from having been chewing on them as you’d looked out at the people around you, from searching for the face your eyes always pulled towards as if by some unseen gravitational force.

Michelle nudged you then, her head inclined towards the opposite end of the room.

You were grateful for Michelle. She knew who had you caught. Who had had you caught for a couple of years now. The two of you never spoke of it. Her secret smile always there to meet you when you came to, when your eyes lingered a little too long, when his touch left you blushing.

She knew you were too afraid to say it out loud. Too afraid of making those thoughts real, as if speaking those feelings aloud, even if only to yourself or to Michelle, would make them more tangible, give them power, and purpose. Set them into motion; you were afraid of which direction they would take.

She knew how to encourage without words.

She also knew what you didn’t.

You tore your eyes away from the dark surface of the marble and followed her line of sight, body coming to attention. You watched as two familiar figures pushed their way through the crowd gathered around the front door. Watched as both boys stopped to take in the scene, as one leaned in closely to the other, a nervous expression on his soft, dark features; lips moving. Watched as the other lent a patient smile and moved to put a hand on a tense shoulder; a set of thin, pink lips in motion as he gave his friend a comforting squeeze. Watched as the bigger of the two relaxed, his posture shifting, softening; bangs of his glossy, black hair bobbing as he nodded his head at his wavy haired companion.

You smiled when they looked in your direction, two pairs of glittering brown eyes lighting up; heart pulsing as rapidly as your fluttering eardrums when those lips widened into a brilliant smile, a full set of white teeth on display.

And then suddenly, there was a broad chest blocking your view, an Oscorp logo set to a dark green background in the center of your field of vision.

“That wasn’t very subtle,” Harry’s deep voice was full of humor. You stood to your full height then, eyebrows furrowing at his words. You couldn’t see that Michelle was shaking her head at him, eyes full of warning.

“What do you mean?”

He laughed at you, glancing between you and your friend, shaking his head before saying, “Nothing, never mind.” He looked away momentarily, his attention caught on a group playing a game in the corner of the living room, voices having reached a volume rivaling the music; he laughed again as a couple fell over the side of the couch that had been pushed aside earlier.

You hadn’t noticed that he held two unopened cans of beer in his hands, condensation on their outsides making it difficult to read the labels, a few droplets finding their way onto the counter as they slid off of his fingers. A few strands of his hair fell into his eyes as he turned his head back in your direction, attention fully on you again. He thrust the cans out at you and Michelle.

“OK, wet blankets,” his eyebrows moving up and down suggestively, “time to make you the lives of the party.” Immediately, and in such perfect harmony it was almost funny, you and Michelle shook your heads at him.

“No, I don’t think so.” He sat the cans down when you didn’t take them, droplets continuing their journey, pooling at their bases.

“Oh, come on, what is one beer going to hurt? Loosen up a little. I’ll watch you.” A cold, wet hand reached out and touched the skin of your forearm, fingers sliding under the rolled fabric of your sleeve.

To amend your previous thoughts: you liked _regular_ Harry. Party Harry wasn’t nice Harry. You much preferred every other version of Harry to that guy.

“No, Harry,” you held up the can of soda you’d nearly finished, “this is just fine, thanks.” He brought his hand back to cross over his chest with the other, laughing at you when your eyes worked to see around him.

They didn’t make it around far enough to see that the boy they searched for was staring intently at the same set of shoulder’s that were limiting your view.

“We said no, jerk. Why are you pressuring us?” Michelle spoke up, moving to stand next to you, her eyes leveling with his. Harry threw up his hands, the remaining droplets of water the crevices of his fingers held from the cans flinging into the air above his head, catching in the light, giving the illusion of a sloppy, misshapen halo around his pretty head.

“Alright, alright, just trying to give doe eyes over here a little liquid courage,” he said as he walked off, a hand waving in dismissal. Michelle’s hand found her forehead.

“What does that mean?” You asked his back, receiving no answer, you turned to Michelle, your voice laced with frustration, “Michelle, what does that mean?” She gave you a sheepish expression, her eyes telling you that she had an answer, her body language saying you don’t really want to talk about it. You released a sigh then, taking a moment to send a wave of irritation in the direction of your insecurities, your self-consciousness, and lack of faith in heart. Your eyes wandered, searching for him, finding him propped against a wall, speaking animatedly, hands flying, to Ned and another boy you recognized from your Calculus class.

You admired the way the dimmed lights of the entryway shone down onto his cheekbones, at the way his own features cast shadows over the rest of his skin; eyelashes dark and long. He paused to lick his lips between words, that same light accenting the new wetness there, glowing as the shiny patch of lightened skin stretched with a smile.

Your stomach flipped in rebellion as a thought crossed your mind: _It’s just Peter._

You looked down at the beer Harry had left. You’d never put alcohol into your system.

“Liquid courage,” you murmured, picking one up and inspecting the can, fingernail catching on the metal, releasing a hissing sound into the air as you popped the tab. Michelle looked on with wide eyes, hand covering her mouth as she hid a smile. You brought the can up to your lips.

“OK, we’re really doing this,” Michelle said, laughing in disbelief as she watched.

She knew this was a bad idea. She knew you knew it was a bad idea. She knew you knew she was going to get a kick out of this.

The unpleasant smell of the alcohol seeped into your nose, carbonation fizzing and popping, burning as the bitter fluid made its way down your throat. Swallowing, you made a face, not entirely liking the taste, but not fully disliking it either.

How much of this stuff did you have to drink before you would feel it?

You nodded your head as you quickly finished the first can. “Courage,” you whispered.

You hadn’t noticed the pause in conversation between the group of boys across the room as the one stopped to watch you, a funny, inquisitive brow ascending along with the can on course for your lips.  
  


* * *

  
Michelle had stayed by your side. Her laughter becoming more frequent the louder you got. And you were being loud; by the time you’d finished your last drink you were no longer thinking about what you were saying as words continued to pour from your mouth. You’d even tried to join in on the game the group in the corner had started, wanting to be more involved, not knowing exactly what they were playing, only to be pulled back into the kitchen by Michelle when she’d noticed the game involved alcohol, mouths, and tongues.

You’d protested weakly. She’d explained. You’d said ‘oh.’

It hadn’t taken much for your head to feel fuzzy, for your chest to lighten, your steps to fumble, and your thoughts to slow; thoughts that were normally racing, thoughts normally fully of doubt.

Your stomach had been empty save for the soda.

Three beers. Three doses of courage.

Three weights pulling at the corners of his mouth as he watched each one empty. He’d been exchanging glances with Michelle, questioning, accusing. You noticed. Even with the fog of alcohol clouding your brain, you noticed his frowns.

You had yet to cross the room. Where was that bravery?

Harry made his way to you then, taking note of the empty cans, pulling you roughly into his arms, giving the top of your head a pat, shocking you as he squeezed tightly. “There you go,” he said, pulling away to wrap an arm around your shoulders, free arm gesturing around the room, hand stopping when the tips of his fingers lined up with a certain group of boys, “Now get out there and join the party.” His lips smacked as he placed a quick kiss to the line of your hair.

You didn’t see the wink he gave Michelle.

You didn’t see the finger she gave him.

As quickly as he’d come over he moved on.

Peter was no longer pretending to be interested in conversation. He now stood next to you, his arms crossed as he looked you over. The noise of the party faded out.

You liked the way he’d styled his hair.

You liked the way his shirt bunched at his chest as his arms pulled together more tightly.

You smiled at him, eyes feeling heavy and tired from the effort of taking him in, “Hi, Peter.” He flinched, frowning as your clumsy words banged against his eardrums.

“Did Harry put you up to this?” The tone of his voice caught you off guard, irritation so ill-matching what your mind knew of Peter that even now, while slightly impaired, your brain told you to be put-off. You furrowed your brows at him, one hand reaching out to push at a firm shoulder.

It irritated you even more when his body remained still and unaffected.

“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Peter.”

“So he did.”

“Did not.”

“You two were talking when I got here.”

“No,” you said loudly while shaking your head at him; Peter’s form blurring slightly as your brain worked to catch up with itself again. A pair of warm hands found your shoulders, steadying you, fingertips teasing the skin of your neck as they peeked out past the fabric of your flannel.

You couldn’t see that Michelle and Ned stood together, watching the exchange; hands on mouths, both trying not to alert either of you to the smiles on their faces.

“Come on, I saw you with him.” His features were lined with irritation, eyes looking over your head as he searched for the man in question.

“Peter?”

He looked down at you then, features relaxing, a smile beginning to form as he took note of the grin on your face. “Hmm?”

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” His hands withdrew from you abruptly, startling both of you, your bodies stumbling for different reasons.

“Wha - what? N-no,” You laughed as he threw a hand out to the counter, missing the first time, hand slapping against the surface as he found purchase clumsily, “No,” before making an attempt at casual, propping himself up on one arm.

His cheeks were pink. “No.”

“No?”

You leaned into him them, the sweaty fingers of the hand you’d put on the counter sliding forward to brush fingers with his. Your other hand found his chest, fingers smoothing over tensed muscles, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his shirt to draw him in. You were close enough to him now that your chests were nearly touching, the heat coming off of him mixing with your own as you drew nearer with each expansion of lungs, with every shaky breath taken. Your eyes took in the lines of his neck, the shape of his jaw, lingering at the very interesting shade of pink coloring his lips, the light freckles across his nose, and finally meeting the brown of his eyes.

You couldn’t see that Michelle and Ned both stood with wide, excited eyes, or that Ned was furiously patting at Michelle’s arm as if she weren’t already a witness.

You looked up at his nervous expression with narrowed eyes and a grin on your face, “You are,” you accused. He released a breath as your face came closer to his, noses nearly touching. “You’re jealous, Parker.” His eyes were on your lips; the blush on his cheeks further reddening, their radiant heat kissing the skin of yours.

There was a moment where he said nothing. Eyes bouncing comically between your lips and your eyes, brows furrowing as the seconds passed, lips pulling into a frown as he came to a decision.

“And you’re so drunk,” he finally said, hot breath blowing over your face.

His words washed over you, and suddenly you were filled with the burning feeling of awareness. You took in your position then, at how you had drawn him in to you, at how close your lips were, at the way his eyes were taking in your face, realizing that this wasn’t the way you wanted this to happen. You were upset with yourself, but more than anything embarrassed.

You took a step back from him, fingers releasing the fabric of his shirt, palm flat against his chest to keep your now spinning head from winning out over your balance.

Your stomach heaved.

“I think I need to sit down.” He nodded his head at you.

“I think you need more than that.” You nodded yours.

His fingertips moved, brushing between the ticklish skin of your own, his hand smothering yours in a blanket of warmth; your eyes looking down to focus on the way his fingers bent around the curves of your knuckles.

“Fucking Harry,” you muttered. He laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, offering his other hand to you, placing your palm in his to steady you as he lead you to the door and out of that stupid, wonderful, ridiculous party.

It would be a long time before you talked about it.


	4. In Which You Surprise Yourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter asks you to Prom. All of those accidental touches finally peak, building over the years and finally turning into something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: “You’re really soft.” “You look incredible in that.” “Can I kiss you?”  
> Or in this case: touch that sets your nerves on fire.
> 
> Peter is 18.
> 
> Warnings: We gettin’ a little hot and heavy in this one folks. But not cliché, so don’t get too excited, you hear?

It was the night of Senior Prom. Your nerves were in tangles, stomach doing flips as you took one last look at yourself in the mirror. Initially, you’d gone around telling everyone that you weren’t going to this _stupid_ dance; you didn’t want to go. You’d even made plans with your mom, expressing to her that no one was going to ask you anyway, and you didn’t want to spend the money on the whole dress thing. You had been trying to sell it to yourself. You had every intention of sticking to your guns until Peter had asked you to go with him.

* * *

 

_You looked up from your book and over the tray of food in front of you to see Peter standing across the table. His hands shoved into his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet, the headphones around his neck rebounding up and down off his chest in time with his movements. You smiled at him._

_“Hey, Pete,” you offered, becoming curious and slightly nervous when his answering smile looked incredibly uncomfortable. You almost wanted to laugh. You were glad you didn’t. He shocked you with the words that tumbled from his mouth._

_“So do you maybe want to go to Prom?” The speed at which the words left his lips would have impressed you if you weren’t suddenly a ball of nerves yourself. “You know, with me?”_

_You probably looked ridiculous: eyes wide as your mouth flopped open and closed a few times before you managed to respond. “Umm, O-OK,” you nodded your head, the prospect of going to a dance with Peter finally working itself into your brain, “yeah, yes, yes.”_

_He had stopped his bouncing in favor of a smile. “OK, cool.”_

_“OK.” You were still holding your book awkwardly almost in front of your face, too afraid of moving to put it down._

_He gave you a nervous smile, turning his body away from you, stopping again, his hands coming out of hiding and gesturing to the line of people waiting to get their food, “OK, I’m just gonna…” he said before walking away in the direction his shaking hands had motioned._

_“OK.”_

_You couldn’t have hid your smile if you’d tried._   
  


* * *

Your mom had laughed at your sudden change of heart, the nervous excitement that had been building since he’d asked bursting from you as you’d told her. The two of you had gone out that weekend to find a dress. You’d decided on a soft blue color, long and silk, the skirt of the dress sweeping down to your ankles. It fit you snugly, hugging your body in all of the right places. Your bust was lined with delicate lace accents, the cut classy and elegant.

Your mom had spent a good part of the last hour doing your hair up in a series of swooping, intricate braids and curls, an affectionate smile on her face as her fingers worked. She liked Peter. She liked that you liked Peter.

Peter was _good._

Your fingers worked to put a stubborn ringlet back into place, giving yourself an encouraging smile, “It’s just Peter,” you whispered, in an attempt to still the fluttering of your heart, before turning off the light and walking on unsteady legs out into the living room.

Peter stood there with wide eyes as you took each other in. You were good friends. You’d seen each other nearly every day since the start of middle school, but never like this. He looked dashing in his suit, the pale color of his tie complimenting the color you had picked for your dress. You could tell he had taken extra time styling his hair, the pieces falling into place in a more orderly fashion than you were used to seeing. The suit he’d picked fit him well, the broadness of his chest and shoulders evident, his legs and torso long and lean.

A heavy blush took over what felt like the whole of you as his eyes made their way down your body, his own cheeks splashed with color when he made it back up to your face.

“You look _incredible_ in that,” he said, his voice shaky, nerves apparent, he gestured to you then, his hand moving down the length of your form, “i-in a dress, I mean.” He tilted his head then, internally scolding himself for his awkwardness.You could almost hear his internal monologue.

“Me? Look at you,” you said, gesturing the same as he had, “who knew?” He let out a laugh then, spreading his arms and taking a turn so you could see from all angles.

You rolled your eyes at him. Your mom was doing her best not to laugh.

“Alright, alright, we get it, you’re cute,” you said as you fully entered the living room, looking towards your mom and at the camera she held in her hands.

He smiled at you then, his eyes soft as he took a step towards you, his fingers reaching for yours. The sensation like an electric charge as they glided across the back of your hand and up your wrist, sliding the corsage he’d bought into place. Delicate, ticklish touches. His gaze lingered on his fingers, at the way the weight of them dimpled your skin, both of his hands now holding onto yours.

Through all your years of friendship, your hands had touched many times and in many ways: casual exchanges, accidental brushes of fingertips, light touches to the backs of hands. For a long time, they’d meant nothing. It was only within the last couple of years that those touches had gradually begun to mean _everything_ , all of them leaving your stomach fluttering and warmth in your chest that you had slowly grown accustomed to. The warmth that you had began to associate with all things Peter.

But never like this.

You were worried that he might be able to hear the frantic beating of your heart. Surely he could feel the way your racing pulse was making your veins jump. Almost like your body, even down to the tiniest cells in your blood, were reaching out for the attention of his hands, for every part of your skin to have the privilege of being touched by those fingers.

“You’re so soft,” you heard him whisper, so softly you were sure you weren’t meant to have heard it.

The flash of a camera pulled you back into the present.  
  


* * *

 

The two of you had left the dance early in favor of enjoying each other’s company without the distraction of bright lights, booming music, tacky decorations, and sweaty bodies. Instead, you walked together outside, your only company that of each other and the glittering stars above you.

He looked good in starlight.

Having now spent time actually in his arms, bodies swaying in time to the music, hands on hips, touching his neck, faces closer together than they’d ever been; the distance between you now felt like a chasm. Even with his fingers brushing against yours every so often as you walked. You were glad your mom had had the foresight to suggest comfortable shoes.

He had given you his jacket to wear before you’d even had the chance to mention the crisp air; he had taken his time adjusting the garment around your neck and shoulders. Those fingers of his spreading their treachery over more of your bare skin, tickling your neck as he adjusted the collar, your flesh erupting in goosebumps as a stray finger brushed past your ear when he retracted his hands.

You suspected he had done it on purpose when you caught the grin on his face as he’d pulled away.

You admired how quickly he was becoming sure of himself when it came to touching you. Like he knew if he touched you enough, he would set you ablaze; like he’d heard your blood’s call, its silent plea for more contact. You would take whatever you could get before the spell of this night, this dress and his suit, whatever this was, vanished with the light of day.

You came to a stop at a playground, growing excited as you caught sight of the swing set under the dim, yellow light of a streetlamp. You ran over to it, taking a seat, laughing as the chains rattled and squeaked when your legs got going, the sound growing louder the higher you got. Peter stood in front of you, hands in his pockets, his curls breaking free as the breeze picked up, a smile on his face as he watched.

“Can I kiss you?”

Immediately you stopped swinging, your heart making fast work of beating its way up into your throat. The look on his face told you that he’d startled even himself with his question.

“OK,” surprising yourself, as he had, when you managed a response. He looked down at his shoes then, releasing a breath, shaking out his hands before making to move towards you. His nervousness was endearing.

You couldn’t have moved if you’d tried.

He was in front of you before you were really ready for it, those hands coming to rest on either of yours; sweaty palms and rusty chains. His musky scent hit your nose as he drew in closer, filling your lungs with him, you worked to calm your heart.

_It’s just Peter._

His nose brushed against the tip of yours, your air combining with his, and you could practically feel his lips on yours already, that minuscule partition of air between yours and his charged with electricity; sparking, crackling; you closed your eyes, his hands gave yours a squeeze, a small sound escaping you, releasing into that charged space.

“OK,” he whispered, the sound caressing your lips.

He closed the distance and your heart caught fire. It was clumsy, noses getting in the way, teeth clashing, but the feel of him, of his lips working with yours to build this thing, an entirely new sensation to add to the growing list of all things Peter, was anything but. When he pulled away from you, he released a shuddered breath, fingers still woven tightly over yours. Your eyelashes fluttered open to see that he was looking at you intently, a ridiculous smile on his face.

You couldn’t help but to laugh. He watched as you did, his gaze softening, breaking his hands free of their grip so that he could place two steady hands on your cheeks.

When he kissed you again, it was different, like his lips were begging yours, they were calling out to you in the same way your skin had to him. His tongue setting the tone of this kiss as it danced across your lips, working them open, to meet with yours. His fingers found the sensitive skin of your neck, your body singing as the warmth of them bled into your flesh, spreading down into your chest, settling in this swirling pool of heat that began building in your lower abdomen. You stood then, the seat of the swing smacking into the backs of your legs; your hands finding their way around his neck, fingers weaving themselves into his curls.

Those hands left burning trails down the sides of your waist as they slowly worked down to your hips, the chilled silk of your dress contrasting in a delicious way to the heat of his fingers. You gasped into his mouth when his hands tightened around your hips, pulling your body firmly against his, fingers bunching at the fabric. Your fingers tightened in tandem with his, pulling at his hair; you relished in the sound he made in response, deciding that it was now your goal to coax that sound from him at every opportunity.

He pulled away from you then to rest his head on your shoulder, his breathing heavy, moist heat spreading over your chest, doing nothing to calm the other new, much more adult, and equally warm sensation building between your legs.

“ _Peter…”_

“ _Please,_ tell me you’re feeling what I’m feeling,” he asked, his voice deeper, his words rougher, puffs of raspy air spreading over your collar bone, rolling down past the lace to mix with the skin of your breasts. Both of your hearts beat furiously against each other’s.

_It’s just Peter._

_Oh, but it’s Peter._

“Yes,” you whispered, “I feel it,” his whole body shuddering, fingers clenching tighter as the warm heat of your words, the moisture from your mouth, caressed the fine hairs of his ear, “everywhere.” That beautiful breathy, desperate sound escaping from his lips again, the rumbling of his chest against yours helping to coax the responding wave of sensation down your body.

The two of you stood there, bodies coiled, nerves on fire, breathing in and out, breathing the other in for what felt like an eternity before he finally had it in him to take a step back from you. You immediately missed his body, the way that the planes of him had melted with the curves of yours; the way the two of you had blended together to create this new place, a place that was warm, exciting, and yet wholly familiar.

He now stood with his hands in his pockets again, stock still, looking down at the grass beneath his shoes. He released a breath, “Wow,” he was looking at you now, “OK, so that was - ”

You looked up from the fingers you had been fiddling with in front of you, “Yeah, that was - ”

“Something,” he said, taking a step closer to you.

“Something _good,_ ” you added.

His brown eyes were twinkling, eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. You both laughed at each other then, at the whole thing, for having taken so long to do _something._

He offered you his hand then and you took it, weaving your fingers together and giving his a squeeze. He brought your hands up to his lips, brushing your knuckles across them, peppering each one with kisses.

“Shall we?” You knew his question held weight, he wasn’t just asking you to venture back into the night, to fall back into the world where the two of you only shared momentary flashes of the sensations you’d felt moments before; where that heat, that electricity existed only in skin that begged to be touched, hearts that raced at the thought of what could.

_Oh, but it’s Peter._

“We shall.”


	5. If You Stayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finally feels like he’s in the right place to tell you what he does. Intimacy helps that along. The first time. And maybe a second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: “I love your freckles.” “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?” “I’d like it if you stayed.”  
> Or in this case: the truth comes out.
> 
> Peter is 19/20ish.
> 
> Warnings: A lot of very heavy, very obvious insinuation. Listen, I don’t write smut, I write lovin, because let’s be real here guys, that boy would be the sweetest.

As your brain emerged from the foggy, comfortable place of sleep, the first sensation you recognized was that of the light of the sun beaming in through your bedroom window, the warmth of it enveloping your skin. The backs of your eyelids flashing in time with the clouds as they lazily drifted past the sun. Your ears took in the signs of life outside your window: car engines and their various rumblings, the loud pumping siren of horns as one too many motorists signaled their impatience, the chiming bell of a bicycle, the yip of a dog, and the pealing laughter of a woman and child.

Then there was the lovely sound of the steady, familiar breaths being taken by the body next to yours.

You smiled tenderly as the happenings of the last couple of hours played out on the darkened screens of your lids; your memories fresh, your heart light as it floated within your chest.  
  


* * *

_The tips of his fingers, feather light, ran down the length of your spine, following down past the curve of your rear, coming to rest at the softest part of your inner thigh; a trail of burning flesh and goosebumps left in their wake. His lips took their turn next: warm, moist, scorching marks on your skin as he kissed his way down across your shoulders, down each of the delicate bones of your back, the dimples above your hips; every place that his fingers had already painted with heat._

_You could hear your heart beating in your ears._

_Those fingers teased, swirling and dancing around the backs of your thighs in a believably practiced choreography; the fine hairs there rising as his hot, shaky breath washed over the expanse of your skin. He placed another series of kisses where his hands had been._

_He had set you on fire._

_Would it be this way every time?_

_A sweaty hand found your rib cage, the light pressure increasing as he silently asked for you to turn over. The naked flesh of your chest hit the air, another wave of goosebumps spread over you, the neglected skin aching to be touched, to be ignited as the other half of you had. Your eyes met his. His brown eyes dark, his face flush with color. His hair was still dampened._

_You smiled as his voice met your ears._

_“Again?”_  
  


* * *

You opened your eyes to see that he was already awake. He sat on the side of the bed, chin resting on his hands, sheets wrapped loosely about his waist, back to you.

A beam of bright light ignited the whole of his back; broad shoulders bathed in day, little darkened splashes of color breaking up and contrasting with pale skin. The light reflecting in an interesting way off of the silvery scars that had found their home on his shoulder, the backs of his arms, ribs, and his lower back.

“I love your freckles,” your voice breaking the silence, the sound of it crackly; your words entering the waking world as slowly as you had. You sat up, sheets falling down your body as you moved towards him. You drew in close to him, bodies nearly touching; your breasts teasing at the skin of his back as you brought a hand up to run your fingers over the smattering of freckles that decorated the skin at the tops of his shoulders.

He dropped his hands, allowing them to hang loosely between his legs, his body leaning back into yours, your chest pressing into him, the combined heat of your bodies filling you with a comfortable warmth.

The light from the window shone through the brunette strands of his hair, a few pieces alight and seeming to glow. The sun highlighting the strands that sprouted wildly out of place at the top of his head and above his ears.

“You have so many scars,” you noted, fingertips finding one on the back of his arm, running over the raised, pink line.

Your body rose and fell again in time with his breath as he released a sigh, nodding his head as he made his decision.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, his words rumbling through your chest as they bled into you. His eyes were on his hands; those hands that had set you aflame. Your fingers worked to correct the messy strands of his hair, putting his curls back into place.

“Then tell me.” He surprised you then when he pulled away from you and stood from the bed, sheets falling to hang off of the edge. He grabbed for the boxers he’d discarded haphazardly on the floor, pulling them over his legs before reaching for his shirt, the work you had put in on his hair coming undone as he slipped his head through it. He further disrupted the placement of the silken locks as the fingers of one hand came up to weave through them, resting at the top of his head as he turned to look at you.

You sat up fully then, suddenly aware of your nudity, you grabbed at the sheets and wrapped them around your shoulders, folding your arms, a hand grasping at each as you pulled the fabric tightly to your body.  
  


* * *

_You heard the click of the door as he closed it quietly behind him, the sound of it sending a pulse into the air; the noise like a gavel, the verdict declared.  
_

_This was happening._

_The sound of the city at night filling the room: the rhythmic thumping of music escaping from windows, brakes whistling, a plane flying over-head, and the laughter of a man and woman._

_Then there was the ragged breathing of two overly excited bodies having willingly trapped themselves between four walls._

_Walls that were closing in._

_Walls that didn’t really exist._

_You turned to look at him then, pulling the sweater you wore from your body and dropping it at your feet as you met his eyes; brown eyes wide, brown eyes burning._

_Your shaking, sweaty hands brushed against your stomach, fingers finding the hem of your camisole, pulling it over your head in one quick motion. The chilly, stagnant air of your room drew at the skin of your naked chest, tugging at the flesh there and pulling it tight._

_He released a shuddering breath, crossing the room before your shirt could join the discarded sweater. His moistened palms found their place at your cheeks, holding your face gently. The scratchy fabric of his jacket rubbed against your breasts, the feel of it sending a pleasantly warm sensation down your abdomen._

_His lips brushed across your own, chapped and slightly rough, but soft in the way they embraced yours._

_He pulled away then, eyebrows furrowing, calloused thumbs rubbing lightly across the tops of your reddened cheeks._

“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?”

* * *

He walked over to the bag he had left by the door, his back to you as he reached inside of it, “I’ve wanted to tell you about this for so long,” he paused in his searching, “but I was afraid.” His voice was timid, uncharacteristically wary, the sound barely reaching where you sat across the room. You nodded your head in encouragement, urging him on, waiting for him to continue despite his not being able to see it.

“Ned knows, May, too,” he looked at you over his shoulder, his hands coming out of the bag, something balled up between his fingers, “they both kind of found out by accident. I don’t want this to be an accident with you.”

“You’re killing me here,” you said, your nerves getting the best of your patience.

“This is big,” he said to the door, “I need you to be open.”

“Peter, I’m sitting here naked, how much more open do you want me to be?”

He clicked his tongue at that, turning around then with an annoyed look on his face. The clumped up thing in his hands held between white knuckles, the bright red color of the object peeking through the cracks. 

You gave him an apologetic smile.

You took interest in the ray of light that was working its way up the wood of the door, a slim part of it catching fire to the tiny hairs of his arm and leg. You met his eyes again as he took a deep breath. You continued watching his face when his eyes looked down, as they focused on a point on the floor.

“The life that I’ve chosen is dangerous. I’ve made enemies. It’s dangerous to know me,” he looked at you then, “to be close to me,” color returning to his knuckles as his grip loosened, “if they ever figured out who I was…”

“Peter, wha - ”

His hands opened then, and the familiar visage of Spider-man met your eyes as you took in the sight of the mask. He stayed silent as your wide eyes worked over every part of what he was showing you, your brain beginning to put together the pieces; everything about Peter and his behavior over the years you’d known him, his quirks, and the scars suddenly making sense to you.

“Oh.”

He put his mask back into his bag before walking over to you, dropping to kneel in front of the bed, his hands finding the tops of your knees, brown eyes glassy as he looked up at your widened ones.

“Look, I know that I’m asking a lot of you,” a steady set of fingers reached up to tuck some errant pieces of hair behind your ear, “and I’ll understand if you’d rather not,” his fingers smoothed their way down to rest at your neck, “i- if you want to go, but,” the tips moving up and down in time with your pulse.

“I’d like it if you stayed.”

You soaked in his words, taking your time with them, allowing them to tumble around with the mess of thoughts your brain was working through, the whole of them clumping together to drop down into your chest to act as kindling for the fire that Peter had ignited years ago. A smile found its way to your face.

“Well you’ve already got me naked, Parker, you didn’t have to pull the Spider-man card.”

The laughter spilling from him rivaled the noisy mess of the city outside the window.


	6. Tomorrow, He Would Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: “I never want to see you again.” “I’ll die without you.” “I’m not ready to say goodbye.” “Don’t you give up on me.”  
> Or in this case: gravity fails you.  
> Or: the moon falls from orbit.
> 
> Peter is 22/23.
> 
> Warnings: You’re not going to like this.

Somehow, she and Ned had both managed to convince him that going to Times Square for New Years was a good idea. The both of them had been so excited when he’d finally agreed, beaten down by their eagerness; at the way she had described what she imagined millions and millions of fluttering pieces of color and laughter would be like dancing in the cold air, how it would feel to stand in the middle of it all; amidst the lights and sounds of the city enthralled with the night.

She had smiled this sweet, lazy smile as she’d thought of it. She’d thrown her head back, hair shining as it ran over her shoulders like a lazy river, long eyelashes kissing soft cheeks, hands in the air grasping at imaginary confetti as it fell around her; everything about her soft and warm and cozy.

Maybe they were going; if only to see the confetti in her hair.

Ned had him fully convinced a few days later when he talked about how his mother had been to see the ball drop a long time ago; when her heart still beat and her eyes carried this light in them like Ned’s did. She’d told him that it was the most beautiful, life altering thing to be surrounded by so many other warm bodies; people joined together in celebration of the great panorama; another set of painted days alive and here and present. More days to hope, and love, and experience; to feel and to change, and grow.

Of course they were going; if only to see the smiles on their faces.

They’d planned the whole day out carefully: layering long sleeve shirts, sweaters, and jackets; it was a bitterly cold one. It was the kind of day that made you hold hands and push into warm shoulders, surround yourself in soft, sweatered arms, and push noses into beanies that smelt like flowers and reminded him of spring. She’d spent the whole day with her hand wrapped up in his and smiling at the way Ned and his girlfriend were doing the same. He’d spent the whole day nosing at the hair around her ears and cold, rosy cheeks; all ticklish strands and ticklish words.

Truthfully, the packs of people, hundreds of thousands of jittery bodies had his nerves standing on end; the sounds of so many hearts, breaths, and voices in his overly-sensitive ears building and sticking together to create one large, buzzing noise in his skull. There were so many people, so many different things that could go wrong; it was too cramped, it was too loud, and it was crushing.

He was even more nervous because he had left his suit in their apartment; had hung it up and tucked it away in the closet to only be put back on in a new year.

He had wanted to be Peter Parker today, Peter Parker only.

* * *

 

But _God,_ if it didn’t feel wrong.  
  
She knew his brain was a chaotic mess of worry, knew that he was reaching his limit, as she always did. Her hands were at the back of his neck, rubbing in soothing circles the moment she’d felt his muscles stiffen, when she felt them coil against her, reaching max tensile strength as his patience did. She would rub and Ned would smile, distracting him with jokes, familiar laughter, practiced and comfortable routine. He and Ned’s girlfriend would just watch and admire the brilliant sources of light illuminating their lives; two suns beaming; there was no resisting the pull of gravity.  
  
The ball at the top of the One Times Square building sat atop its pedestal, reflecting sunlight off of it, regal and shiny as it waited; the star attraction for tonight’s sky. Truthfully, he was excited to see her enact her musings on color and paper and the air in person. It would be a memory he would catalogue into all things [Y/N.]  
  
When the sun went down and more people showed, music started playing from the stages and he could relax despite the energy of the crowd growing; everyone moving and excited by the pulse of instruments and the charge in the air.  
  
And there _was_ a charge in the air, it was electric and it stung, but in that way that started your heart and got it going. The smiles, her smile, and the way the different colors from all of the screens and flashing lights from stages and buildings taller than he was used to, played with the base colors of her skin and hair, changing them into these brand new, unnamed hues that reminded him of street lamps and snowflakes on eyelashes.  
  
He was so caught up in the magic of the lights and colors and warmth that he had hardly noticed they were only minutes from a new year.  
  
He should have noticed.  
  
His hair was standing on end and his neck was tight, his heart beating wildly, but he hadn’t noticed for the feeling of the night, his best friend’s shoulder against his, her back on his chest, gloved hands resting on his jacketed arms.  
  
He only began to really pay attention to what his body was desperately trying to tell him when he spotted a drone in the night sky, out of place, lights flashing; a few people in the crowd pointing up at the alien invader circling above. If he listened hard enough, he could hear its motors whirring, could hear the camera at its base zooming in and out.  
  
Around him the voices of thousands and thousands of men, women, and children pick up, all counting down to a new day.  
  
 _Ten, nine, eight…._  
  
He felt a cold chill run down his spine.  
  
 _Six, five, four…_  
  
His head buzzed and he watched as the drone pulled farther away from the glittering, flashing object that held the whole planet’s gaze.  
  
 _You idiot, you stupid, stupid, fucking idiot.  
  
Three, two, one…_  
  
And then the ball dropped and every color he could think of launched into the air around it. He felt her joy light up his heart.  
  
And then the ball exploded, shattered, the shock wave sent all of its pieces flying out into the air. He felt her terror deep in his bones.  
  
It was beautiful, really. Every piece of that colored paper she had come to see combusting and catching fire in the air instantly, catching in the heat of the explosion; the light they gave off as they flash-burned was enough to fool everyone into thinking it was daytime; that maybe this was a day dream and not a nightmare.  
  
Each broken piece of the ball was floating, shimmering, and shining; a dangerous cloud of a million reflective fireflies lighting up all that was visible for the seconds they seemed to float in space above the heads of thousands of hopeful, terrified people.  
  
Then the sound hits his ears: piercing, disorientating, and painful. He would have covered them with his hands but he was too busy shielding her head from the falling debris. He’d pulled her down to a crouch, curling his body around hers and wrapping solid arms around a precious head. He peeked an eye out to see that Ned had done the same with his; brown eyes meeting. They were full of fear, but there was trust there too. He was trusting him to keep them safe from whatever this was.  
  
He was Peter. But he was Spider-man, too.  
  
If only he had brought his suit.  
  
 _Stupid, stupid, fucking idiot._  
  
He hadn’t even brought his web shooters.  
  
He had forgotten that Peter Parker and Spider-man are the same person, that they were mutually exclusive; not something he could tuck away in the back of a closet, not even for a day.  
  
The next series of blasts sent his body flying backwards, her body ripped from his as the force of the air igniting and combusting hit him full on. When he hit the ground that wasn’t really the ground, but a mass of wriggling, panicked bodies, his eyes immediately searched for her. He found Ned and his girlfriend first, both standing, dust and blood coating their faces from the explosions and the debris from the buildings on either side of the square that the bombs had been rigged in.  
  
“Y/N!” He called as loudly as he could. Although he couldn’t really hear anything but ringing.  Despite the overwhelming sounds of screaming, crying, and glass cracking from the heat of the flames burning, his voice had somehow reached her. He saw her perk up immediately twenty or so feet away. She was a bit dirty and a little worse for wear, but she was alive.  
  
As his chest pulled towards hers like the moon to the Earth, his body did it again. His hair stood on end, his stomach clenched, and his head felt like a hive.  
  
His gut told him to look up and when he did his eyes spotted the drone in the sky. It was withdrawing into the night again, its camera pointing at the building in front of him, the building behind her: the One Times Square building.  
  
The screens decorating the buildings around the Square flickered on all at once, sputtering to life with a fizzle and a pixelated pop to reveal a face that was suddenly all he could see, all anyone could see; this man with no hair, a straight nose, dark eyes, and an ugly purple scar that pulled at the lips in a way that made him look like an angry dog. He could hear breathing.  
  
Then the man laughed and showed the world what he was seeing through the eyes of his drone.  
  
“I am life. I am death. I am man. I am _Terror_ ,” a voice, one that sounded like every voice, echoed through the heavy air, imprinting the words into the soft flesh of his brain before the screens cut off again.  
  
And then the world ended.  
  
One by one, level by level, the windows on the building behind his moon violently ejected their glass into the sky, so many explosives shaking the foundation, so many waves of sound erupting from around her that his ears had simply given up; his brain had given up.  
  
A final explosion rang out from the middle of the tower. And then there was no longer just glass in the air, but chunks of concrete and warped, twisted steel falling. Falling. Falling to the ground.  
  
She was looking at him, panic in those beautiful eyes.  
  
That fucking drone buzzed above it all.  
  
He was running before he’d even thought to, stepping on legs, arms, and chests, not really trying to avoid anything for fear that one step too little, one less point of contact for his pumping legs would mean the difference between the light of day and the darkness of night.  
  
As he watched the massive, broken pieces free fall, the only thing he could think about was a physics lesson he’d learned a long time ago from a girl with bangs that didn’t quite suit her face and old, dirty tennis shoes. He thought about mass and velocity, he thought about acceleration and the pull that gravity has on an object.  
  
The pull that she had on his core was immense, but it wasn’t enough to change his own terminal velocity. It wouldn’t have been enough to prevent the end of the world.  
  
But _God_ , how he wished it had. He wasn’t going to make it.   
  
She was running too, but it wasn’t going to be enough. Nothing would be enough.  
  
Her soul found his and she gave him one last watery smile before his heart stopped and there was nothing anymore.  
  
The light of the Earth, the sun, the moon disappeared beneath dusty concrete and twisted metal; snuffed out with no pomp or ceremony; crushed by one of man’s creations; crushed by life, death, and terror.  
  
He couldn’t breathe.  
  
His heart wasn’t beating.  
  
Was he screaming? No, there was no air in him to scream with.  
  
It was Ned’s voice bouncing around his head, Ned who was wrapping burning arms around his frozen shoulders. But he couldn’t really feel it, wasn’t truly hearing him. Ned was just the buzzing in his skull, the weights holding him back; so he shoved as hard as he could.  
  
He was Peter Parker on this new, terrible, disaster of a day and he didn’t care that anyone saw that other part of him when his numb hands and trembling arms lifted and tossed that crushing thing from her body.  
  
He fell to his knees and his heart tore itself out from his chest.  
  
There was nothing.  
  
He couldn’t bring himself to touch her; what was left of her. There was just a pile of skin and blood, broken bones and cloth. There was no making out who she had been save for the color of her hair, the sweater she’d worn, the blood soaked beanie he’d whispered secret words into hours earlier.  
  
There was _nothing_.  
  
 ** _I’ll die without you._**  
  
He doesn’t remember much after that. Just that he somehow ended up back at his apartment, in his bed, wrapped up in his blankets, mind full of screaming and concrete and drones as he stared out his window, at the diner that was still celebrating a Christmas from another year.  
  
When he’d come back to himself, he became a man obsessed.  
  
He spent minutes, hours, whole days after, playing out imaginary conversations in his head. In his mind, he could pretend it had happened differently. That it hadn’t been so abrupt; that she hadn’t been snatched from him like you ripped a dandelion from the grass; that maybe, instead, she had floated away onto the breeze the way a dandelion does when you make a wish and blow.  
  
In his heart of minds, he held her close and his hands brushed silky strands of hair from her face, face that was still whole and a head that wasn’t the soft putty it had been. His mouth found her forehead and her nose and wet eyelids, kissing full lips to keep them from frowning too much. In his imaginings she had been beautiful even in death.  
  
 ** _“Don’t you give up on me,”_** make believe him had said to make believe her. She had smiled her sweet smile with tears in her eyes and pain on her brows. But only a little pain, death not the ugly thing like it had been.  
  
 _“OK, Peter,”_ she’d whispered, promising his lips. Her breath was still warm, flowers in the air. There was no blood in this scene, only shimmering lights, people laughing, and colored paper like butterflies swirling about your heads.  
  
He spent minutes, hours, whole days after, looking for the ordinary man with the scar on his lip. Ned begged him to sleep, to eat, to do anything, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t until he found him. Until he could unleash the supernova building inside of his chest; center of gravity condensing to this singular, dense, hot mass of _hate.  
  
_ “Peter, come on, man. You can’t do this to yourself. She wouldn’t have wanted this for you,” he’d pleaded in his text messages, his voicemails, “Pete, please, just let me help you.”  
  
“Peter, I loved her, too,” he had whispered to the swirling patterns and knots of his locked door when he returned from the memorial service. He hadn’t gone, couldn’t go.  
  
 ** _I’m not ready to say goodbye._**  
  
When he did find him, it had happened entirely by chance, kind of like the way she’d died. It found him, like death had found her. It was fitting; poetic justice.  
  
He had just put his key into the lock on his car door, metal jingling as the few keys he had clanged together, echoing throughout the darkened parking garage. Someone sneezed. He looked up and his entire world narrowed into this single point in his plane of existence. The ordinary looking man with the unordinary scar was walking towards him, or in his direction rather, carrying a paper bag full of fruits and vegetables.  
  
But then he had been destined to walk towards him, right? Fate had decided that for him when she’d disappeared beneath the white.  
  
He was a man consumed.  
  
He couldn’t control his breathing; at the sight of this man, the way he carried himself, walking like he was as light as a feather, like he hadn’t killed hundreds of people, like he hadn’t killed her, like he truly was _ordinary_.   
  
Instantly, he turned into this wild, desperate, blood lusting thing; this burning, scalding hot image of a man. Every cell, every nerve ending in his body was screaming at him; the fibers inflamed, enraged. He was angry, but more than that, he was rage itself.  
  
And then there was nothing again, nothing in his brain but _that_.  
  
So he lost himself to it.  
  
He was sprinting, furious breath puffing from his nose in white clouds, feet pounding into concrete, legs and arms clearing cars to get to him. The fight was over before it began.  
  
A package of strawberries crinkled as it hit the ground, spilling a few red and fleshy fruits, juice leaking out onto the dirty, blackened ground.  
  
And he punched, and hit, and beat, his knuckles pounding against bone, splitting flesh; capillaries busting and spraying his shirt, his throat, his lips and eyelashes with a fine red mist. He was screaming, lungs burning, all of the heat that had engulfed the inferno of his mind scorching the open air with violent notes. He was sobbing, too; salty rivulets streaming down his cheeks; and there was steam.  
  
He couldn’t see anymore, didn’t need to see through the blurriness of tears and blood and snot. He didn’t want to see what his fists were doing to this ordinary, disgusting, and wholly terrible man’s life; didn’t want to see how his lips were ripping open; the scar there now even more grotesque as it twisted around the teeth that erupted from glistening red flesh.  
  
There was nothing.  
  
This was _everything_.  
  
 _Kill him._  
  
She’s dead.  
  
And this is wrong because it’s _empty_ and it _hurts._  
  
Kill him. _Hurt._ Kill him. _Kill._  
  
Come on, Spider-man. Come on, _Peter._  
  
And he punched, and hit, and beat; and his muscles ached as they tensed over and over again. He closed his eyes and tried not to imagine how his knuckles; knuckles that were shooting arrows up his arms, were sculpting this terrible, fucking sick, ordinary man’s face into something pulpy and disfigured; unrecognizable.  
  
 _Come on, Peter._  
  
That was her voice.  
  
It had been her voice erupting from inside the shadowed valley of his mind, spurred on by the thought of his name, the thought of him; the sound of her caressing his skull and surprising him enough to extinguish some of that burning, burning, burning fire. That voice, that sweet, sweet voice sounded _hurt._ She was confused.   
  
_What are you doing, Peter?_    
  
It was enough to give him pause, his fists slowing as he listened for more, begged for more, full body aching for just one more word.  
  
 _Peter,_ she whispered. He whimpered. He squeezed his eyes shut more firmly; thinking that maybe if he squeezed hard enough, wanted hard enough, that she would let him see her again; see her freckles and pink cheeks, warm and alive so that his mind could begin to defrag itself of the way her face had looked last he’d seen her. His fists were frozen, hanging mid-swing, blood dripping from between webs and creases and fingernails.  
  
The thing underneath him spluttered and choked, groaning and whimpering. He was nothing. He was everything. He squeezed his eyes harder; they hurt; he had monster blood in them. “Shut up,” he spat, venom in his voice, pushing his knee deeper, more sharply into its chest.  
  
He couldn’t miss it, couldn’t miss her. _Again?_ His heart begged.  
  
He was full out sobbing when her voice sang out into the ragged edges of the open wound of his mind; sounds like a wounded animal filling the enclosed space, terrifying wailing bouncing from concrete and parked cars all unaware of the universes conversing between dimensions inside of him.  
  
 _Peter._ He could feel soft lips at his ear; chapped lips brushing at the fine hairs, her warm breath moist against skin; smelling like whipped cream and hot chocolate.  
  
 _Oh, but it’s Peter,_ she said, and he understood.   
  
He fell over its body and bubbling noises to meet with the ground. Falling. Falling and smashing his shoulder at an awkward angle beneath his body, head smacking against the oil slicked concrete, lights flashing across the screens of his blackened eyes.  
  
He collapsed into that universe then, black hole at its center pulling him in, past the event horizon he’d been lingering on the edges of for days. And he cried and cried.  
  
He forgot that he lay next to a monster; forgot that he had come close to being a monster himself. But she had stopped him. And he knew now that he could make up her words by himself. That he _had_ done it himself.  
 _  
Peter, you are good,_ she breathed into the crook of his neck.  
  
 _Peter, you are not a killer,_ she declared with burning eyes.  
 _  
Peter, I love you,_ she whispered into his ear.  
  
 _Peter,_ she moaned into the dark of their room.  
  
Even in death she stayed; answering that question. Answering the question that he so wished he had had the courage, or something like it, to have answered back with a long, long time ago. Wished he had written more on that note he left taped to a locker. Wished he could go back to that rusty swing set and thin silk dress on a cold, starry night.  
  
But it didn’t matter now, because yesterday _she is_ , and today _she was_ , and so tomorrow _he would be_.  
  
So he pulled himself off of the ground, with bloody knuckles, red wrists, and splattered arms to stand over the body of the monster who was really just a man. A man with no face; not really anymore. He would have more scars to disfigure his face now; ugly companions for the mark that sat on his lip; hardened, ugly flesh for an ugly, blackened heart.  
  
He lowered himself to a crouch, his nose inches from the man’s red mask, furrowed his brows and took a deep breath. Two swollen fists clenched stiffly around the fabric of a soaked collar, pulling a limp head up from the concrete; bulbous, purple, swollen nose brushing against his.  
  
A squelching, choked sound came from the man’s mouth.  
  
 ** _“I never want to see you again,”_** his words were calmer now, less like an animal’s growl, “do you hear me? If I _ever_ even so much as _think_ you might be around, I’ll…” and he felt his face soften, hard lines of his face finally giving up and a dry, humorless, bark of a laugh left his lips.  
  
He would _what?_  
  
So he let go of the man’s ruined shirt, let his ruined head smack against the pavement and walked away. He went to his car and finished unlocking the door, as he had been trying to do minutes before the world had ended for a second time. In it, he pulled out a piece of paper and a marker he kept handy for situations just like this one. He left the paper sitting on his chest, sticky blood as an adhesive. _  
  
‘I found this for you. He knows what he’s done. No more broken promises.’  
  
_ He called for an ambulance and closed the car door. __  
  
He picked up his phone again as the rear tires rolled over the bump at the exit. He answered on the second ring.  
  
“Peter,” and he sounded so relieved. So unashamedly, blissfully relieved. He realized then how long it had been since he’d actually really heard his friend’s voice, since he’d listened to the love woven into every syllable.  
  
“Ned,” and his voice was barely above a whisper, so low that he almost didn’t even hear himself.  
  
“Are you OK, do you need something?”  
  
“Ned,” and this time his voice is a little louder, words a little watery. “I need you. I need your help.”  
  
“OK, Peter.”  
  
And that was enough.  
  
Because tomorrow: he would be.  
  


* * *

  
  
_**There is a more mature, much darker sequel to this story. It's titled 'After All Things.' Please give it a read if you enjoyed this! As always, Kudos and comments are much appreciated!** _

 


End file.
